


Oromandi

by MythopoeticReality



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythopoeticReality/pseuds/MythopoeticReality
Summary: Even stories can die. When people stop believing in them, when people stop singing the old songs and telling the old tales. ‘We do not need this anymore.’ They say, ‘It is only an old fiction....' But what happens when those stories can come back? When they haunt us no matter what we do to dismiss them?





	1. Chapter 1

_“All things fade given time.”  He plucks at the strings of his harp, before glancing up at you, ensuring that you are listening._

_You sigh, rolling your eyes at this, and shake your head. As though you would not be listening! You have listened to him thus far, haven’t you? And you have spent all of this time searching for him besides. Still, he fixes you with a sharp look, refusing to go on, until at last you sigh. Turning in the sand, leaning forward, your elbows resting upon your knees, you return to him the most intent look you can manage._

_One of the corners of his lips just inches upwards before his gaze returns again to his harp and he begins to pluck out an absentminded melody. “Towers crumble, families fall apart, the seas rise and swallow mountains. Even stories die. When people stop believing in them, when people stop singing the old songs and telling the old tales. ‘We do not need this anymore.’ They say, ‘It is only an old fiction.’_

 

My father's library was the treasure of the Age, rival only to the archives kept by Lord Aulë in his mansions. A sprawling labyrinth, a veritable _forest_ of books. Leather bound manuscripts stamped with gold, scrolls stacked upon one another, sketchbooks and journals and observations kept during Atar's many expeditions across Aman, all organized in long ailes of shelves, which reached like the crowns of trees to heights far even out of Maitimo's grasp. They were carven and gilded, their sides and arching frames crowned with scenes from our oldest history, tales I knew well: Orome's discovery of us, The Great Journey, The founding of Tirion.

In the peace of that library I could get lost for hours. The scents of ink and parchment and old leather hanging on the air welcomed me, and my own echoing footsteps in the restful silence of those halls bid me stay. My fingers slipped over the spines of books, searching for...I cannot say what. Something _new_ , a tale I had not yet heard, the inspiration for my next song. Treatises on the Development of Quenya and the Divergence of the Telerin tongue, catalogues of the folk rhymes of our people, and volumes as thick as my arm full of old ballads and myths from those earliest starlit days upon the shores of Cúivienen, all slipped past me as I moved further and further along through the shadows cast by the bookshelves and out into the golden light of Laurelin between.

As I edged my way farther down a wandering path, falling inevitably towards the library's center and the nematon of Atar's studies, the scratching of a pen soon reached my ears. Low, grumbling curses interwove themselves with the sound, every so often punctuated by the harried flapping of turning pages. Slowing in my step, I hesitated. Atar was here then, from the sounds of things currently up to his neck in some new project or another. Ai! Eru save me if I interrupted him.

No, no a pack of hungry wolves made for better company than Atar when he was in the midst of something. And so, pulling back and away from that particular corner of the library I slid off to the towards the far corner of the archives, where Tengwar melted away into Rúmil's old Sarati. Though I never spent much time in this particular area, I could read the writing well enough. A remnant from a time when, upon seeing my interest in the old stories, Atar assumed that I would follow in he and Matimo's footsteps and put my energy towards lore-mastery. Instead I discovered a deep and abiding hatred for _the Lammas_ and Atar found himself with a Minstrel as a son.

I am still rather unsure quite how he feels about that last part.

I wandered through the old lorebooks and histories, still absently searching for something – _anything –_ that would catch my eye. As my eyes passed over the deep brown spines and stamped writing shining with the black gleam of tar my thoughts began to wander. A snatch of a tune that I'd heard earlier and was now altering and twisting, stretching and growing in my mind. Something about a Telerin piper and Salmar, If I recall. A contest of skill between them, a flute of mother-of-pearl and coral, who's voice could make the very fish dance as the prize.

“Kano, _Kanafinwë!”_ The sharp tone in Atar's voice was enough to wake me from my thoughts, and in moments the image of the wide beach, it's shores glimmering with pearls and gems, and the competing pipers seated upon it fell from my mind. I blinked, spinning on my heel and quickly bowing my head in apology to Atar. “Forgive me,” I murmured quickly, feeling my face heat to the very tips of my ears, “I was distracted Atar --”

A short grunt was all I met with in response and as I glanced up my father's gaze was raking over me, and his arms were folded over his chest.

“What..ah...what is it you wanted, Atar?”

There was a sigh, and a shake of his head Atar relented, his expression softening atleast slightly. He understood, at least, what it was to have one's mind cary them off. “The book just before you, to your left.” He said

Turning back to the shelf I pulled down the requested book. _Discovering the Oromandi: Tracking the Eldarin Understanding of the Ainur over the Ages._ I paused, giving my father a questioning look as I handed the book off to him.

“Rúmil and I are engaged in debate with a fool-of-a-Vanya who's lack of historical knowledge leaves me questioning his claim to the title of Loremaster.”

“Ah...” I murmured, my tone still clearly unsatisfied by this answer.

There was a pause, a thoughtful frown crossing Atar's features. He adjusted his hold on the book in his hands, toying with the corner of it's binding. Finally, the corners of his lips twitched upwards. He turned, waving me on to follow him. “Come,” He said, “I believe this may be of interest to you.”

My curiosity growing all the more, I fell into pace behind him, weaving through the shelves again, back to his desk.

And when we got there...Ai! An all-consuming chaos had overtaken the space. Piles and stacks of books covered it, several left turned over on their pages, or lying open, flat on the desk or propped up against the other books. Scattered and shuffled piles of notes and writings, ink-spattered and marked with more cross outs and arrows then there were actual words, spread out whenever there was room, with the remnants of an earlier meal pushed off to the desk's far corner, long since forgotten.

“What _are_ you studying?” I found myself murmuring as Atar took his seat again, and gestured towards a stool off across the way, at the foot of one of the nearby bookcases for myself, As I came back with it and settled in to watch Atar at his work, he handed me another book in answer. I skimmed over the first few pages, my brows only knitting tighter and tighter together from confusion.

“Oromandi? Nirmir? Orrosi? Is this even Quenya?” I asked.

“Proto-Quenya, The tongue spoken around the Shores of Cúivienen.” The words were half murmured and distant, lower than the scratch of his pen as he wrote. “The Oromandi, They are...” He made a vague gesture with his hand (still not having looked up yet from his work ), before trailing off, turning another page in the book before him. His quill flashed across the parchment before him, marking something else down, before he paused for a moment. His eyes narrowed down at the book before him and he pressed his fingers to his lips.

“Spirits.” He finally finished, glancing back towards me as if suddenly recalling my presence. “Yes, I suppose that is the only word that will fit. In the old legends, beings that hold a certain amount of power over the world – “

“Like the Ainur?” I ventured

Atar looked thoughtful for a moment, making a motion with his hand like a balancing scale. “In a sense... a misunderstanding of what the Ainur our ancestors encountered then were. You have seen how I will leave a coil of wire near the forge with each project I complete? Or how it is common outside the city for farmers to leave a dish of milk out on their doorsteps?”

I nodded, remembering the sight of the small, gleaming spirals from my youth, and how more than once I'd stolen away with them, curious as to their purpose.

“It is an old tradition.” Atar sat streighter in his seat as he explained to me, pushing his hair back behind his ears and taking on that lecturer's air he had with his apprentices. “Offerings of our craft – we _say_ to the Valar now, though they have claimed that they do not wish for such obeisance ” His lips made a sort of crooked twist, too bitter to _truly_ be called a smile, “But it is a memory, Kano, of a time when we would leave such gifts to placicate something much different.”

“But you do not believe, Atar – that is, why do you make the spirals? You cannot think – ”

My father only shook his head, “No, Kano.” He said, turning back to his work and waving me off, “As I said, it is only a corruption and a misunderstanding of the world as it is. An old fiction.”

“Then why do you--”

He spun back around, brows raised, and fixing me with a hard stare. I was starting to prod too much, and he was beginning to wish to return to his work. A moment passed, but then his expression softened. “As I said, it is a memory, Kano.”

With those words I knew he was finished. With those words I began to stand up, preparing to make my leave. The book I held was still a weight in my hands. As I leaned forward to lay it back into its place upon the desk I hesitated, staring at it for a moment. I shook my head, flickering my gaze back to my father. Finally, I asked, “Atar, do you need this, or may I take it with me?”

Atar shrugged, only waving me off as he turned back to his work. “Take it, it has served its purpose to me.”

Giving him a quick nod, I turned on my heel and left.

 

“ _In Tirion, outside the Halls of the King there used to fly banners brightly colored and richly embroidered. I have never seen them with my own eyes, and so I can only speak from the descriptions given to me. Strung up between the columns and spinning through the branches of trees, fluttering across the lawns and flashing like silken rainbows or the feathers of some strange brightly colored bird, the sight of those Halls in the height of spring was comparable only to the mansions of the Valar themselves.” He pauses, then shrugs, turning back to you “So I have been told, at least._

_“‘And Queen Miríel would make a new one with each finished tapestry, a small piece you understand.’ One of the maids told me once, ‘A gift to honor Lady Vairë and the Fair Ones that followed her.’ She smiled for a moment, a wistful sort of look, but one that soon faded and she shook her head.” As though to illustrate this, Maglor does the same._

_“She told me how when the New Queen swept in one of the first things she had done was have the banners taken down. Indis was a Vanya, and she thought like one – all high-minded righteousness (or so my father will tell you) – and did not see the banners as a fitting tribute to the Valar. They recalled an ignorant past, where we were scrambling in the dark and made such offerings to other beings, shadows cast in our minds and imaginings invented from half-understanding. There is a part of me that feels that they reminded her of a far more recent past as well, and would forever, so long as they hung there._

_“And so that sight faded away, even on changeless Valinor.”_

_A sharp snort escapes from him and he shakes his head. He is not playing any longer, one hand rests upon his harp  and he stares at it as though the sand beneath his fingernails is who he’s really addressing. The other hand is tugging on the worn hem of his shirt, salt crusted and fraying._

_“We did not yet understand how much things_ **_could_ ** _change, yet. Not as we soon would, when the trees went dark, when blood was first shed. When my family and I took our first steps towards becoming a band of murderers and traitors. Ai…”_

_He clears his throat. You reach out for him, but he ignores you.“But no. That is not what today's story is about.”_

_“We made out way across the sea and to Endórë. We began to build out first camp, our first contact was made with the Elves who lived in that region. Atar began to make notes, to collect what knowledge he could on their language. I began to collect their stories._

_“Again those words so familiar from the legends I'd hear in my youth, and so alien upon my own tongue began to ring in my ears._ **_Oromandi. Nirmir. Orrosi._ ** _I dismissed them. Old fictions. Someone mistaking Morgoth's servants for something else, as had been done with the Dark Rider before.”_

In the grand scheme of things, thirty years is not so long. Thirty years of the sun, no less, which flicker by far faster than those long joyus years beneath the treelight. Thirty years, what is that when you have lived through entire _Ages_ , seen empires and civilizations rise and fall, expand and grow then crumble and eventually fade away, until you are the only one who is left. What is thirty years?

It's the kind of thing you say to yourself while looking back on your life and attempting to be philosophical about all of it. To have actually lived through those thirty years though, to face one after another not only the loss of my grandfather, but my father and my brother as well, to see the sun rise for the first time and not understand its meaning, and to be struck first with a wild, mad hope at the first sight of my uncle's banners, only for that hope to crumble in an instant beneath the weight of my own guilt and the tense hostility that prowled silently between our two camps, to face _all_ of this, now suddenly as a King and a leader, a position I never in my worst nightmares ever thought to see myself in...ai, those thirty years were some of the longest in my life.

Sometimes, I needed to escape. An hour or three, half a day at the very longest. I would slip away before the sun had fully risen and thick mists still clung to the air. My harp would be slung over my shoulder and as I walked along the shores of Mithrim, or wandered through the edges of the mountain forests that surrounded us, I would revel in the peace. My surroundings would take on a golden cast as the sun began her journey across the sky, and birdsong would be the only thing to break the silence surrounding me. If I ignored the ever growing shadow to the east – The heavy dark clouds that hung over Morringotto's fortress and would often storm over our camp – I could forget, just for a while, my arguing brothers and the always looming possibility of civil war, my oath and the blood already staining my hands, The Enemy and even where it was I now lived.

Perhaps on that day I wanted to forget even more than usual. I cannot remember the exact reasons, it was so many years ago, and what happened in those woods is what _truly_ sticks in my memory. Whatever the case may be, I found myself wandering deeper past the treeline than was my usual habit. The air was damp and green, seeping in through my cloak and rising gooseprickles over my arms. Here the mist rolled in thick, a dense fog that crept between the trees and melded with their shadows to give the world a ghastly cast. It was of a kind with my temperament that morning, and I shut my eyes, breathing in the dense, thick air. I wandered on for a bit longer, before, finally, finding an agreeable spot – a moss-covered stone, erupting from the earth just beneath the outreached branches of an old oak – I seated myself down and shrugged my harp free from my shoulders.

At first I just let my fingers dance over the strings, playing what they would.old snatchings of Teleren sea shanties and the high hymns of the Vanyar, Noldorin working songs sung usually to stone and steel, by weavers at their looms or carpenters at the lathe. Eventually they settled into a tune familiar to me from cold nights gathered around the talefire in the dead of winter. Stories told by by grandfather about things ancient and dark. A song from the unlit hours of the dawning of the world, stories of a great black horse, taller than any elf. It's haunches steamed with sweat, it's eyes glowed like a molten inferno, and on it's back a demon rode. It was a beast that would hunt down any who dare wander too far from the lake shores and softly glowing hearths of home, who dare even speak it's name. Elves would run, their hearts pounding, their own breath clawing and scraping against their throat as though their very spirits were attempting to flee their bodies to escape the fates that awaited them. The thunderous echoing of the horse's hooves would thrum through their ears, shudder through their very _bones... and then..._

I stopped. I couldn't go on. My breath came in long and shuddering and I leaned down, my head against my harp. I could not think on it. The Black Rider and what he truly _was,_ not while my _brother..._

“Oh, come now! You really _must_ continue on! You've just gotten to the good part!”

My breath stopped and my limbs went rigid. Something crept – _no –_ a _hand_ just lightly trailed up my back, and I felt fingers just lightly carding through the ends of my hair...

“Mother, _please._ Can you not see that he is obviously wounded? His emotions boil over. You will let him rest for a _moment_ yes? And then he will play on.”

The hand dropped away from me. My eyes flickered upwards.

“ _Really,_ Tinfang! We have _guests!”_ She was a nís, more lovely than any other elf I had seen, striking enough to have been counted amongst the Ainur. Her hair was black, hanging down to her mid-back and woven through with ribbons that flashed with the life of a Talefire, and Her gown was the color of Autumn Rain and Mist Upon Distant Hills.

“Then I shall play for you, Mother – oh! Look!” It was a nér who spoke, a man with long, free flowing silver hair, and a beard, almost like that of my grandfather's. He was gesturing to me now, when moments ago his hand had been hovering over the flute, tied with a ribbon at his hip, for I had now risen and was staring at the glade around me.

At least, a glade I had assumed it when I had walked in that morning, But now the very air seemed to have changed. Now I was not the only one there, aside from the nér and nís, others now surrounded me, just as strange, just as beautiful. A woman in one corner with a dress of spider's web, another beside her who wore a spring's dawn, a man, seated just before me in a robe of leaf green, his hair the color and windswept shape of thistle down. They sat on logs and stones and twisting tree roots as though this were the great Hall of a palace. Indeed the more I looked the more that seemed the case.

I licked my lips, feeling suddenly unsettled, suddenly as though I had stumbled upon something I was not meant to at all. Miraculously finding my voice I managed to form the words, “What..what is this place? What is going on?”

The woman blinked at me, but them a smile spread across her face. “You do not know?” She said, “Why! You are in the Realm of Forgotten Myths, good sir! And you are my honored guest.”


	2. Chapter 2

_ “‘There was once among the Nelyar who lived along the shores of  _ _  Cuiviénen, where all of our people originated from, a minstrel of such renown it was said that even the Gods could not play as well…' _

_ Do not look at me like that, in order that you may understand this story, you must understand what it was exactly I had found myself surrounded by.” _

_ It appears that Maglor is not as caught up in his own telling as you had thought, and has seen the way you’ve rolled your eyes at his digression, though the both of you know you are well used to it by now.  And though you fix him with an incredulous look, you sigh, waving Maglor on. He will tell his tale as he sees fit, as he always has done, and you must listen if you want to hear it. _

_ It is a rare thing to see Maglor smile, but for the briefest of moments you are sure you see one flicker across his lips, faint, almost more a ghost of an expression than anything else. Yet still… _

_ He speaks: _

_ “It was a story I loved as a child, though the version I heard by my bedside was one far removed from the original. The truer account moves somewhat like this:  _ _ There was once among the Nelyar who lived in along the shores of  _ _  Cuiviénen, where all of our people originated from, a minstrel of such renown it was said that even the Gods could not play as well. His fame reached far and wide, but it was when tale of him reached the bottom of the lake in his own backyard that he had truely to worry. Back then there lived in Cuiviénen one of the Nermir, who are to the waters of Arda what the Oromandi are to the forests. She was a maiden who’s voice was tinged with the very Music of the Earth, and she grew jealous of the praise the minstrel received. _

_ So it was that one day she emerged from the Lake, the most beautiful maiden you ever saw, wearing jewels like the spark of starlight off of waves, with eyes a blue brighter than the bluest of gemstones. She stood before the Minstrel as he played upon the Lake’s shores and she challenged him to a battle of song. _

_ Now the Minstrel was proud and foolish, and did not listen to the stories told to him by his Grandmothers and Grandfathers, and so he accepted the Maiden’s challenge. A crowd was gathering now, having seen the Maiden emerge from the water and knowing what she was, and they knew they were about to see something worthy of legend. Pulling a man from the crowd, she told him that he was to judge between them in their game. And so the both of them began to sing. _

_ The Maiden went first, and her song was so wild and free, so endearing to all ears that many among the crowd began to dance then and there, the very cattails along the shore seemed to sway in time to her song! The squirrels came chittering down from their nests amongst the trees, and even the stars above seemed to be listening to her. Everyone around agreed it was wonderful, but the Minstrel was not afraid, for he was  proud and foolish, and did not listen to the stories told to him by his Grandmothers and Grandfathers. _

_ As the Maiden finished, the minstrel took up his harp, and the music he played was fine indeed. He wove his own heart into that song, and he knew things the Maiden could never know, and experienced things that she could never understand. He sang of love, the love of a child and a parent, the love of a sibling and of a spouse for he was all of these things at one point or another, and the Maiden could never be any of them.  He sang of loss, for he knew loss well, watching comrades die during hunts and feeling the sorrow of having a friend taken by the Black Rider, for in those days nearly everyone knew someone who had been. He sang a song so fine it seemed that the whole world stopped to listen for that moment, no wind blew in the trees, no voices spoke amongst the crowds, indeed, even Cuiviénen itself seemed to still to a mirror’s flatness. _

_ As the Minstrel finished all were moved to tears, and the Judge immediately called in favor of the Minstrel. This only angered the Maiden however. _

_ Her face darkened as though a overtaken by a storm, and with a curse in a language even the Noldor now do not understand, she extended her hand towards the judge. A great swoon overcame him, and with a sound like cracking wood, his body fell to the earth, in two separate pieces, like a split log. _

_ All fell silent and frozen, even the Minstrel who by now realized that he had been proud and foolish and should have listen to the stories told to him by his Grandmothers and Grandfathers. _

_ As the Maiden reached her hand out to him, the Minstrel began to feel himself growing smaller and smaller. His skin prickled and burned all over, and felt as though something were pushing through it. Now, you see, The Maiden had come to realize in truth that the Minstrel truly was the greatest in song in all of that region of the world, and she desired to hear his song herself forever more. And so she turned him into a songbird. As the Maiden’s power finished taking hold over the Minstrel, he flew into her open hand. The Maiden took him with her, into her home beneath the lake, and though he was never seen again, it has been said that sometimes the Minstrel is still heard singing, accompanied by his new mistress.” _

 

_ Forgotten Myths _ . I blinked rapidly, repeating the name in my mind as though through whatever familiarity the repetition gained would endow what I had just heard with even the smallest amount of  _ sense.  _ But then, that was a fruitless task, wasn’t it?  _ None _ of this made any  _ sense.  _ I stood in the Realm of Forgotten Myths, in a hall built not from wood or stone, but shards of sunlight and shifting mists, the still living trunks of trees and the loamy, mossy undergrowth of the forest. I stood surrounded by impossible women and men, and the snag that had buried itself in my mind was that I did not recognize the  _ name _ of the realm I had entered?

I could imagine Carnistir at that very moment, rolling his eyes and saying how typical that was of me. 

_ Forgotten Myths _ . It was a name out of a storybook, taken straight from the kinds of tales children were told at their bedsides, the kinds of stories that were requested with raucous cheers and much splashing of ale and wine during Tonfui. This... _ all _ of it was something ripped right from the pages of…

_ A story. _

No. I could not be... _ they _ could not be….  My gaze flickered again towards the Lady of Forgotten Myths and her son beside her, and in that instant my eyes caught upon the chain around her throat,a collection of interlinked coils of metals of every color and kind I could possibly imagine. My father’s voice returned to me from what felt like ages ago:  _ “It is a memory, Kano, of a time when we would leave such gifts to placicate something much different.” _

Realizing now just how much trouble I was in, I forced a smile in kind, giving the Lady the most gracious bow I could muster.

_ Oromandi. _ Every story I had collected upon arriving in Endórë, Every Legend I had heard, every obscure bit of Lore I had spent countless hours scouring my father’s library for in Valinor, now all of it returned to me at once. I was in the realm of the Oromandi. I needed to keep my wits sharp and avoid causing offense at any cost. Above all I needed to find a way to return to my brothers, as soon as I was able.

How easy it is to say now, without a constant mental bombardment of old wives tales telling me to sleep with a knife under my pillow and praising the power of rowan berries in sapping the powers of such beings. If I had any Rowan on me, I would not have been  in this particular situation, now would I?

“Ah, of course, and you do me  _ great  _ honor by inviting me here.” I murmured. Before hesitating for a moment, dropping my gaze (my brows drawing together as I turned away, my lips twitching into a frown.) in what I hoped she took as a gesture of humility. “You must forgive me, but I am rather at a loss of how I could have attracted your attention? Let alone how you have brought me here. It is magnificent, certainly unlike anything I have seen in my own lands, but that is precisely my point? I do not recall leaving the realm held by myself and my brothers…”

To this the Lady of Forgotten Myths only gave a light laugh, gesturing for me to seat myself again upon the stone I had been perched upon previously, as she curled herself up on the ground beside it.

I did as directed, if only for the fact that I was at a loss of what else _to_ do.

“The better question, is, of course, how could you  _ not  _ have gained my attention? You play so well --Why! You are a better minstrel even than my Tinfang!”

At this I could not help but flicker my gaze towards the silver-haired  nér standing beside her. He gave a slight cough, as though clearing his throat, shifting in his spot before pointedly glancing away. As he rolled his flute in his hand, I might have almost felt for him.

Well rather, that was, I might have had I not been most concerned with getting myself out of there as soon as possible. Surely it was growing late and my absence long by now. My brothers would be searching for me…

“You honor me again, my lady, again, but really I cannot be --”

“Oh he is so modest as well!” As the Lady gushed over me I had to bite back a smirk. This must have been the first time in centuries that anyone in the House of   Fëanáro had ever been described as such. “No, no, that settles it! You absolutely  _ must _ become a member of my court!”

She said it in tones that proclaimed the idea to be the most wonderful thought in the world. Her eyes were wide and her smile eager as she leaned forward, resting her hands upon my arm. It felt as though she had already claimed me…

Carefully I extracted my arm from her grasp. Tales of centuries and Ages passing by while mere days passed for those trapped in the realms of the Oromandi flashed through my mind. Some may think time a small thing for one of my kind, but I assure you, centuries separated from the ones you love still seem to be eternities to those living them, be they elf or man. Especially now, as my family was, trapped in the midst of war. How much would I miss? It took only an instant for everything to change... 

“No, no, I could not possibly--” I began, but quickly caught myself. Shaking my head, I started over once more, “That is to say, while it would only give me the greatest joy to serve such a beautiful and appreciative patron, someone who clearly has such fine taste --” 

Here Tinfang let loose a low “tch,” and I began to worry that I was laying on perhaps a bit too thickly, yet the Lady seemed all too pleased to have me carry on.

“I have my own people I must return to and lead. When my brother was captured by Morringotto --”

“Oh is  _ that  _  your only issue?” The Lady said, immediately brightening, “That is easily fixed!” 

I paused, frozen where I was, and could only blink at her. “Pardon?”

“Oh, you are adorable, aren’t you?” She turned to the rest of her guests, who all murmured their assent. “It isn’t so hard at all, really. Of course Melkor sits as a Dark Lord secure in his power, but that just makes it all the easier you see? Such a foolish Vala! He  _ always _ overlooks  _ us…” _

I hesitated, and though I might try to hide it, the confusion was plain upon my face. Fortunately, this only seemed to charm the Lady more as I said, “You must...you must pardon me. Are you saying that you are more powerful than the greatest of the Valar? That you can…” I couldn't even finish the thought, for once robbed of my speech completely.

“And what have they been teaching you, those Valar in their deathless realm across the sea?” The Lady gave a soft snort, her chin lifting in hurt pride, quickly shaking her head, before suddenly turning back to me and softly clucking. “ They  _ all _ overlook us, and that is their downfall. Melkor may rule by fear, and the iron shackle around your brother’s wrist might be stubborn, but I am charming and everyone loves  _ me!  _ Come now, dear, It shall be nothing at all to free your brother and bring him down from the mountain, and then to set him up once more as king in your stead! And why then, then you shall be free to live among my court for all of your days!” 

I was silent, still unsure of what to say, or if I should even  _ believe _ her. My mouth opened, only to shut immediately afterward as I second guessed myself. It was madness she spoke. But it was madness that I was even  _ here _ to begin with. And if my brother had even the merest possibility of escape from the torment Morringotto put him through…

Well.

It was only right of me to do whatever it took to save him wasn’t it? Even if it meant a sacrifice of my own freedom? My stomach lurched, suddenly, hard and sharp.    _ It isn’t even your sacrifice to make… _ a voice (one that reminded me in all of the wrong ways of my brothers and father at their worst) hissed at the back of my mind. And again, as it had so many times since we had first spoken the accursed words, the oath played again through my mind:  _ “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords…” _

Even did I wish to offer my life over in exchange for my brother’s, to serve this strange woman who’s ways I only had the scantest, most folkloric ideas about, I could not. 

Yet still, her hand rested there again, upon my arm, still claiming me, as though I was already  _ hers. _ And Perhaps I was. Perhaps, at least in her eyes, I had been since I had first wandered so deeply into the trees this morning. This thought was a step too far for me, and though I had stifled my pride thus far, I could do no more. Pulling back from the woman, I began to speak, Not harshly, yet firmly. “I am sorry.” I said. “I  _ cannot.” _

At this Tinfang straightened, eyeing me. Yet it was his mother who kept my gaze. Her eyes flashed, and she raised a brow. Lightning quick she was on her feet and all on a sudden the cooing kindness she had shown me had evaporated. Even with father, I had never seen anyone’s mood blacken so quickly. “And why not? Have I offered you anything less than perfect hospitality? Are my halls not grand enough for  _ you,  _ Oh mighty Prince of the--”

“Mother! Mother,  _ please! _ ” Leaping to my side came Tinfang, and he stood, between myself and his mother, wearing one of the most  _ placating _ expressions I had seen on any man. “As you said, he is surely too humble! Perhaps he does not believe you when you compare his skill in song to mine. Is that not what you meant, sir?” Turning back towards me, that same fixed smile still in place, there was an almost insistent look in his eyes, nearly  _ demanding _ I play along. 

He did not have to tell me twice. I quickly nodded. “Yes, yes, that is all I meant. How could I walk into your halls and take the place of your own son when I do not even know how my abilities stand next to his?”

The Lady narrowed her eyes, looking between us. Her lips thinned, and the moments passed. Finally, she nodded. “Very well then.” She said, “Then a song contest we shall have, the winner of which shall be my minstrel!” At those words she brightened visibly, a wide grin cracking across her features as she clasped her hands together.

Tinfang and I shared a look as he backed away from me. A song contest we would have then, and if I had any hope of escaping this place to see my brothers again then I had better fail, and I had better do it  _ convincingly.  _

* * *

 

It was Tinfang who began our game, the sound to his flute the high trilling as a songbird’s path of flight, looping and whirling, dipping and diving. At first I listened, readying myself to jump in as well, play along and follow his path until I could take the song into my own hands and cause him to stumble.

Or rather, stumble myself, and prove to the Lady that it was not  _ I _ she wanted as her minstrel.

I could feel the eyes of all of those gathered upon us, especially those of my prospective paton. There was something like a cat’s hunger in them, and the curl at her lips did not help with that impression in the least. Tearing my eyes from her gaze I turned back to my harp, slowly plucking out the first few notes of my part. 

I wove the rich tones of my harp  in a perfect accompaniment to The warbling dance of Tinfang’s flute. Perhaps it was his mother serving as my muse, but I had nothing less in mind than the image of a prowling tabby stalking after the dancing bird of his own song. 

Our music changed and shifted, creating and recreating itself at a pace that could only have been matched by our own thoughts. I felt Tinfang’s eyes on me and my own gaze kept flickering, up from my harp strings  back towards his fingers doing their own leaping dance over the silvery shape of his instrument. Cat chased after flitting bird, at times catching up and nearly pouncing upon the creature, only at last moment to fall short of victory, to find the bird had flown up, darting out of reach once more. I became lost in the game, almost forgetting what it was I was playing for, that I was meant to  _ loose _ , as my heart began to pound, and my fingers began to feel numb, only brought to life again by the next vibration striking up from my harp’s strings.

Again Tinfang glanced towards me. Our eyes met and he shot me a furtive look, one with enough heat in it to make me forget myself, to wake me suddenly and steal me away from the space my mind always carried me  off to in composing a song. My fingers tripped over themselves, as I well and truly lost my place in the music, and as I did so, Tinfang’s own music rose in a series of triumphant notes.

Bird escaped from cat. The Lady’s son had won.

“And you see, Mother? I have won again.” Tinfang said, bowing to the gathered company as applause rippled through them. 

The lady sighed, waving off her son’s remarks. There was an indulgent smile on her face however as she said, “Oh, very well Tinfang.”  She reached her hands out towards him, clasping them around his own, and he looked very proud of himself indeed.

That was when she turned to me, “Oh you played very well too! A bit of bad luck, shall we call it, I will be very happy to--”

_ “Mother.” _ Tinfang interrupted, before she could go any further. “Out guest had stayed quite long enough, and I fear he might be growing tired? Is that not true Lord Kanafinwё?”

His speech up until that point had been in Thindarin and I blinked at him, almost surprised to hear the very name my brothers called me by moving past his lips. But I quickly nodded, ready to be free of this place and returned to my brothers as soon as I was able.

“Come then,”  He said, gesturing for me to follow him, “I will accompany you back to your realm.”

And with those words spoken, he led me out from the Hall and out into the wider forest, though what the subtle difference there was between the two is difficult even for me to describe. We had been walking on for a while when finally I spoke.

“I must thank you, for speaking on my behalf in there. Surely I would have--”

“Your behalf?” Tinfang turned a glance over his shoulder, head cocking to the side for a moment, before blinking. Suddenly his lips quicked upward into an odd curl of irony. “Ah, no you misunderstand. She is constantly attempting to find one who can best me and take my place as minstrel to her.” He shrugged, “I can only be too happy you have other obligations, that you were willing to stumble. If you weren’t, if you had truly been invested in winning…well. You seem a fine man, with a fine voice and an even better hand upon the harp. It would be a shame to silence such music, of course, but if I must... ” He shrugged.

“Ah.” I eyed the other nér for a long moment, “Right…” 

“That is not to say that your gratitude is not  _ welcome..”   _ He continued on, and as he did so there came an odd light to his eyes. One that I was not entirely sure that I liked. Tinfang only shook his head, however. “How you may express it can be determined later, however, for now…” He stopped gesturing ahead of us. Eyes following his hand I found we stood on the edge of the trees once more, and just in the distance I could hear the flapping banners of the camp. My breath caught and I moved past the treeline, and I’m sure it speaks to what I feared my fate would be that day, that the sight of the camp for once felt like  _ home.  _

“Until next time, My Lord.” Tinfang’s voice called my gaze back to him, but by the time I turned he was gone, disappearing back into the shadows of the trees.  


End file.
